


Brilliant

by sorawings



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Teenagers, First Kiss, First Time, High School, M/M, Mentions of Cabin Pressure, Teenlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-21
Updated: 2014-02-21
Packaged: 2018-01-13 05:38:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,100
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1214737
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sorawings/pseuds/sorawings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is how Sherlock finds himself sitting on John’s bed, arms crossed in a mild pout (it is not a pout!), watching John listen to ‘Cabin Pressure’. The audio is even more insipid than Sherlock had believed possible. Yet, it is all worth it for the sound of John's laugh, lighting up the room.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Brilliant

**Author's Note:**

  * For [wordsthatkeepyouhome](https://archiveofourown.org/users/wordsthatkeepyouhome/gifts).



> This is for wordsthatkeepyouhome on tumblr who gave me the prompt:  
> Teenlock au where john gets sherlock to listen to cabin pressure with him and theyre lying down on the floor in john’s room and sherlock’s pouting with his arms crossed over his chest because it’s a waste of time he has experiments after all, but then he hears john giggle for the first time and he feels a surge of warmth in his chest. he turns to his side so he can watch john, memorizing every laugh and every smile and half smile or twitch at the corners of his lips. and when the episode’s over and john turns to him and asks if he liked it, he says yes and they talk about sherlock’s favorite parts and sherlock explains each one and the corresponding reaction john had when he heard it.

Perhaps it was the ever-lingering glint of youthful excitement in John’s eye that had convinced Sherlock to consent. Perhaps it was the puppy-like tilt of John’s head as he made his request. Or perhaps, even, it was the promise of an afternoon tucked away with John in his bedroom. Whatever the case, when John Watson had asked Sherlock to listen to a radio show _(“It’s funny! Really Sherlock, I think you might like this one!” John had pleaded_ ), Sherlock had no choice but to fold himself to John’s will and follow, just as John would always follow him.

This is how Sherlock finds himself sitting on John’s bed, arms crossed in a mild pout ( _it is not a pout!)_ , watching John listen to ‘Cabin Pressure’. The audio is even more insipid than Sherlock had believed possible. The main cast consists of only four, one of which is an absolute clown. Another is very near to that (“ _But I’m the captain!”_ he will squeal). I mean, honestly, where is the appeal in such a thing? There is no value in it. Nothing learned. ( _Except perhaps the four forces that work on an airplane, but that is not useful, is it. Is it? Perhaps there will be a future crime on a plane? But, no. No. He would never be allowed access to such a scene. Not without a police badge – something he would only be able to earn by theft. Pity._ )

Yet, despite the utter lack of purpose to this thing, John insists it is a worthy radio show. He looks so content to lie where he is, against the bed, listening to the silly characters talk about their silly airplane. John’s laughter at the jokes dances about the room like candlelight. With each bout of laughter, it feels as if a new candle has been added to the room, building up until everything is left bright and warm – much like Sherlock’s heart at the sound.

Sherlock simply can’t understand it. He has seen and heard John laugh before – at school mostly, or at events with John’s other friends that he dragged Sherlock to – but there is something more to _this_ laugh. It comes from a deeper place. As if John’s very soul is surfacing, honest and laid bare, just for him to see. Sherlock’s light in the dark.

Honest, open, laid bare – these are the traits of Sherlock’s John. Perhaps that is why this is so different. John is _here._ John is with Sherlock, not his ‘friends’ from school. He is here where he belongs. Together everything is more potent. Better than nicotine. Better than using (abusing) the medicine he no longer takes for his supposed ‘Attention Deficit Disorder’ (god forbid he is simply a child who is different). Better than experiments and that one time he had morphine after surgery.

John is here as he always is, next to Sherlock, guiding Sherlock. Reminding him he does matter ( _“Amazing!”_ ). Just look at him, laughing again as there is talk about a _cat_ on an _airplane_ _(“Playing at what? Being a leopard?”_ ). He laughs with his whole body then smiles up at Sherlock – as if Sherlock were the only sight worth seeing – as if _Sherlock_ where the light when the exact opposite is true. Sherlock’s insides curl into themselves and outward like his very atoms are bursting with access energy. Nature’s happy chemicals – dopamine, serotonin, oxytocin – rush about in his brain which no longer feels so steady, but, rather, sloshed. Sherlock is melting under John’s warmth.

Impulsively, he scoots over on the bed, unwinds, and motions for John to join him. John comes up easily and mirrors Sherlock’s (adjusted) position, each of them facing the other, the only difference is that John has his eyes closed and Sherlock is doing what he usually does, studying and observing.

John smiles when he laughs, full and hearty. His eyes crinkle at the edges in a somehow youthful way. At smaller jokes his lip twitches as if contemplating a laugh, then he smiles. _Oh how he smiles._

The chemicals in Sherlock’s body bubble and shift as he watches John. The heat of chemical reactions seems to center at his chest and fight to rise to the surface. Heat blooms from his center, reaching all the way to his toes. Now Sherlock is smiling. He only smiles with John.

Only ever John.

It is at this moment that John opens his eyes and smiles at Sherlock. ( _Oh yes, I hear the studio audience. The episode is over then. How.… disappointing.…_ ) Sherlock feels the heat from his center crawl up to his face, as if to be nearer to John’s own. John must notice – he seems to notice. He smiles at Sherlock differently now. A smile that says they have a secret for only the two of them.

John reaches out to tuck a curl behind Sherlock’s ear and asks, “So what did you think?”

First Sherlock thinks that he liked the feel of John’s hand brushing his face (nearly caressing it) as he tucked away the errant curl.

Second he realizes that is not what John meant.

“Tolerable,” he replies, because it was.

“Only tolerable?” John smirks at him.

Sherlock rolls his eyes at that. Obvious. “It is tolerable because I am here with you. There is no other redemptive quality in it. The humor is plebian, the cast is minimal, the characters seem flat, the studio audience is deplorable, and the plot is unrealistic at best.”

Now it’s John’s turn to roll his eyes. “Really, Sherlock, then you missed everything. The humor is brilliant, thank you very much. John Finnemore is a fabulous writer. The cast is minimal because he doesn’t need a billion characters to make his show good. His characters _seem_ flat because it is only the first episode. If you kept listening then-”

“I will keep listening.”

John stops and blinks rapidly in surprise.

“You what?”

“I wish to keep listening,” Sherlock states simply.

“But I- But you- But you said-” John stutters.

“Honestly John, I told you. You make it worth while.” Sherlock is pretty sure he is doing the bit-not-good thing where he looks too intently into another person’s eyes. Puts people off, apparently.

John, though, blushes ( _and it is truly a lovely sight_ ), scratches his nose then turns to the computer screen to play the next episode.

They listen to Cabin Pressure well into the evening, stopping only for dinner with John’s family. Sherlock is always welcome at the Watsons’. Being here is always better than being in the cold place people think is his home.

After dinner ( _Sherlock actually ate some, John insisted_ ), John and Sherlock return to Cabin Pressure, tucked under the blankets of John’s bed this time. By the third episode, Sherlock could have identified John anywhere by the sound of his laugh. By the end of the first season, Sherlock can recognize John by his startled inhale immediately before laughing, the crinkle of his eyes when he smiles, by the twitch in the corner of his mouth when he is amused. Sherlock could find John anywhere, and he would do just that if they ever get separated.

Sherlock is so intent on his thoughts that he doesn’t hear it when John asks the first time.

“Sorry, what?” Sherlock says in a contrived bored tone.

“Now that we finished season one you have to tell me your favorite parts!” John insists.

Well if he insists-

“I liked the part about the doctor. Dr. Price. It earned a good laugh. Also the bit about the fire truck, ‘ _I know of no other words that describe a fire truck better than fire truck’,”_ Sherlock imitates in his best accent for the sheer novelty of making John laugh. So that this time it is _him_ who makes John laugh.

And laugh he does! John has an even more exaggerated, startled inhale and then he bursts with laughter. The light that is John Watson reacts with Sherlock’s own essence, an exothermal reaction, two reagents – Sherlock and John – meeting. The result: warmth, laughter (mutual), happiness like froth bubbling up and over. Over flowing. Exiting both their bodies ( _see laughter_ ).

John places his hand where Sherlock’s neck meets his shoulder – not solely on one or the other – puts his forehead to Sherlock’s and says,

“You are the most insane human being I have ever known, and I am glad to call you my best friend.”

Sherlock stops at that. There is something lingering in John’s eyes that Sherlock, for all his intelligence, cannot identify – a certain element that brings out the life in John’s features. Something about it reminds Sherlock of the way his own stomach flips when John enters a room.

The look on John’s face somehow reminds Sherlock of the unidentified feeling beneath his sternum.

“Sherlock, you do know you’re my best mate, right?” John asks earnestly, eyes roving on Sherlock’s face, searching for affirmation.

“I understand the concept in theory-“ Sherlock begins.

“No, it is not a theory, Sherlock. It isn’t something like air, which we believe in but don’t see. You _are_ my best mate. You are important to me. With out you I-” John stops and sucks in a ragged breath. “With out you I wouldn’t manage. I just wouldn’t. You give me life and happiness like no one else does. You took a year 10 student who was dead without knowing it and showed him life. So don’t talk to me about how you don’t think you are good for anything. I know you. I mean- I know you know you’re good at books and learning and science. But you are so much more than that.” John reaches out and combs his hand through Sherlock’s hair, resting it behind Sherlock’s ear.

“You are everything” John whispers, as if anything louder and this moment will break. And something does break- John’s cobalt eyes shatter like crystal hitting pavement. Like a life changed. Like a decision. Like a risk.

 _Could be dangerous_.

Sherlock doesn’t really have control of his body anymore but it doesn’t really matter because he is watching John’s lips as they grow nearer to his own, then his eyes are fluttering closed, and this….

Oh. _This._

This is so much better than anything Sherlock could have imagined. It is the euphoria of discovery. The feeling of belonging – slotting into place.

It is a Stradivarius violin.

Rain storms on a tin roof.

A riotous brain made quiet but for a phrase.

_I love you I love you I love you_

The warmth from John that has been collecting in Sherlock’s body suddenly roars up and surges forward like a wave cresting on a rock. Sherlock swells up and over John, grasping John’s face between his hands. Mouths open and tongues meet between to dance with one another. John has slipped Sherlock’s shirt out of his trousers and has his hands underneath it, one stroking Sherlock’s back from shoulder blade to tail bone. With his other hand, John grasps Sherlock’s thin hip, holding Sherlock to him, begging silently, _please stay_.

Sherlock nips at Johns bottom lip and sucks on his tongue. He lowers his right hand to rest over John’s heart in response.

_Forever, John. Always._

John lets out a high-pitched whine and pulls Sherlock’s whole body to his. He positively attacks Sherlock’s mouth. John has always acted as if Sherlock has the answer to every question fathomable and now John kisses like the answer to life is on Sherlock’s tongue. As if the key to happiness is being sucked from Sherlock’s upper lip. As if the answer to the riddle of the universe is in licking the outline of Sherlock’s mouth.

Sherlock is John’s equal in fervor, memorizing the taste and texture of John’s own lips. Trailing his hand along the side of John’s body.

He will add a library to his mind palace just for this. A room full of books and journals dedicated to the feel of John’s body against and below his. Two pieces of a puzzle that have finally found their match.

“Sherlock,” John pants against him. “Sherlock, please.”

John let out a keening noise and grinds upward. Sherlock’s erection aligns with John and suddenly there is friction and a _heat_ that puts all others to shame, sweeping through Sherlock’s body tearing up any semblance of order. He growls and presses forward, overcome. Lust and passion drive him to feel the entirety of the body below him.

_JohnJohnJohn. My John. Precious John. Alwaysalways. YoursJohnYours._

Sherlock kisses silent promises and confessions into John’s neck as they move together like waves. Sherlock feels like a thermometer, heat rising rising rising and soon he will burst with it. For an endless time he and John are shared breaths, hips rising and falling, kisses and nips to mouths and necks. Sherlock licks his way up John’s jaw to his ear to breath into it,

“I love you.”

John cries out and for a moment Sherlock is sure they are both undone, but no- No. This is not how he wants it. So instead Sherlock settles. He slows his hips and gentles his kisses. John whimpers into Sherlock’s mouth but Sherlock calms him with light kisses to his eyelids.

When the waves have stopped, Sherlock moves to sit across from John. John watches him with muddled eyes – muddled but trusting – waiting to see what to do next.

Not breaking eye contact with John, Sherlock starts on the buttons of his shirt.

Slow. He wants this slow.

John watches with greedy eyes as Sherlock’s torso is revealed, button by button, until Sherlock is able to slip the shirt from his shoulders. Sherlock stops and watches John, waits.

Sensing his cue, John begins on his own buttons, following Sherlock’s pace. They continue this dance until they are both before each other in only their pants. John has to bite his lip to contain a moan. He has never been this hard. Sherlock is wearing silken boxers that leave nothing to the imagination.

Wanting to take the lead for a moment, to show Sherlock he wants this just as much, John hooks his thumbs in the elastic of his boxers. He watches nothing but Sherlock’s face as he pulls them down and lays himself out for Sherlock to see. He wonders if Sherlock can see his name tattooed on John’s skin. Wonders if Sherlock can see that John’s very body and soul belong to him.

Sherlock’s gaze comes back up to John’s face and his eyes are raven black and hungry.

He traces his hands along John’s body from inner thighs to collar bones as he slowly moves to rest above John once again. He stops, their bodies only touching where Sherlock’s hands are under John’s shoulder blades and where the sides of their legs meet. Sherlock hesitates. He wants to draw out this moment, holding back the ocean and all its power. He skims his nose along John’s maintaining eye contact. Both of them a hair string from exploding from the inside out. When John breathes out, “ _Sherlock_ ,” and throws his head back it’s all over.

Their bodies meet, nothing between them now. Skin on skin. Hip on hip. Cock on cock. Sherlock shudders at how perfect it feels. If he thought before was good, it was nothing compared to now.

Sherlock keeps the pace slow and even. Focusing on recreating the feeling of slowly, inevitably bubbling up and over. He refuses to rush this as he licks up John’s throat.

John does not seem quite on board with this plan.

“Slow, John.” Sherlock whispers into John’s ear as John tries to increase the pace. “This is important. This matters. Slow.” Sherlock gives John a gentle kiss.

John huffs at that and throws his head back again, baring his neck to Sherlock’s teeth and tongue.

“You would say that,” John grumbles breathily. “You haven’t been waiting for this moment for _years_.”

The oxygen leaves Sherlock’s lungs in a flash and he needs John’s air. So he kisses kisses kisses and breathes breathes breathes John. Settling his face into the crook of John’s neck where his scent is strongest. Sherlock doesn’t have the strength of mind to respond, to say _yesyes, yearsandyears,_ so he doesn’t try. Instead he paws at John’s nightstand until he finds unscented lotion ( _they are boys graduating in 6 months, of course John has a bit of slick in his nightstand_ ).

So much better. So much better now. Their movements are fluid, cocks gliding sinfully together. Sherlock gasps at how good it is and John moans openly. They are simply breathing against one another’s lips, sharing air, too gone to kiss. They continue to move together like the tide. Rising and falling, against and apart. When Sherlock can no longer stand it, when he can stay at the precipice no longer, teetering at the edge of a the cliff, he breathes, “Let go, John.”

John falls apart, body shaking, breaths coming out in whines.  They fall over the cliff together. Falling, falling, falling. Equilibrium nocked out of alignment and air gusted from lungs. Sherlock feels impact and his vision blots with white. All sensory intake stops for a moment and everything is just John and pure bliss.

Then, slowly, he feels awareness trickle back into his body. He becomes conscious of the situation. He is lying across John ( _probably heavy_ ); there is a mess of bodily fluids between them; and his thigh muscles are absolutely screaming. None of this matters though when he sees the look of pure joy on John’s face. Sherlock leans down to give him one gentle, almost chaste kiss.

 

But this is only the beginning. There will be so much more for SherlockandJohn. First they will shower and sleep. Then there will be dates and nights together. There will be first times and second times and hundredth times. There will be memorizations of each other’s bodies and late night Cabin Pressure while pressed against one another, wrapped in blankets. There will be mysteries and unveiling them.

Don’t get me wrong; there will also be hard times. Neither one of them is perfect. So there will be a battle with addiction and a war. Sherlock will leave for drug dens then John will leave for Afghanistan, but do not fear, for SherlockandJohn means Forever. SherlockandJohn means Always. It means coming back no matter what.

There will be reunion and forgiveness. There will be vows and a ceremony. There will be solving crimes and then retirement and once there is retirement, there will be bees, sunsets, and dying peacefully in each other’s arms.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you SO much for reading this work! If you feel like commenting or kudoing, please do!


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